


His Last Night

by musicprincess1990



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, F/M, Mild Smut, Post-Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Romance, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-21 17:23:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11362077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicprincess1990/pseuds/musicprincess1990
Summary: "Molly swallowed hard. This was bad, whatever it was. And it became clear to her, this was likely to be Sherlock's last night. He would be gone by tomorrow." Set during and after HLV and TAB, inspired by Adele's song, 'All I Ask.'





	1. My Last Night With You

**Author's Note:**

> This work was originally posted as two separate one-shots, but I decided to combine them into one. I do hope you enjoy.

> _"If this is my last night with you,  
>  Hold me like I'm more than just a friend."_
> 
> _-Adele, "All I Ask"_

* * *

 

Molly Hooper stumbled into her flat, weary and sore, after working a double at Bart’s in order to cover for a colleague. This colleague, a new member of the pathology staff, had _not_ taken her advice, which was to go easy on the alcohol while ringing in the new year. Thus, he was currently at home, nursing a massive hangover, and Molly, being the most reliable, was asked to take his shift. She didn’t mind, not really; her work was her life, and she was proud of what she’d built for herself. That didn’t mean she couldn’t be tired, and more than ready for a good night’s rest, after it was through.

In such a state, Molly began shuffling absently around her flat, not bothering with the lights, knowing the place by heart, and put the kettle on to make a nice cup of chamomile. Her eyelids remained heavy and half-closed as she wandered into her bedroom, quickly shedding her trousers and jumper, and the extra layers beneath, in favor of a cozy pair of flannel pyjamas. She unraveled her hair from the messy knot at the back of her head, and carefully, dazedly, brushed the tangles out. Just as she finished, she heard the kettle whistling, and she made for the kitchen, this time switching the lights on.

That was when she noticed the uninvited guest on her sofa.

“Gahh!” she shrieked, taking a startled leap backward and into the doorjamb of her room. She winced in pain, putting one hand on her pounding heart, the other on the back of her head, which had taken the brunt of the impact. “Sherlock, for God’s sake! You scared me half to death!”

The detective in question blinked. “I would have thought you’d be used to this by now. It’s certainly not the first time.”

Molly expelled an exasperated breath and lowered her hands. Despite her lingering anger over his drug use, and the whole Janine issue, she did not have the energy to argue with him. “Alright then,” she asked tiredly, “what do you need?”

It took her a moment, in the silence that followed, to realize that Sherlock was struggling to answer. His mouth opened and closed, opened again, and closed again, before he took a deep sharp breath through his nose, and promptly released it. And he still hadn’t answered. Molly frowned, coming out of her sleepy daze. “Sherlock?” she nervously walked toward him, sitting on the sofa beside him. She had to physically restrain herself from reaching out and touching his hair, his hand, his face. _Something_ to wipe that frightened look from his eyes. “Sherlock, what’s wrong?”

His breath came in shallow spurts, and he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. When they opened again, they were glistening with tears. Molly’s anger melted. She had only seen him like this once before, just before the Fall. That told her everything she needed to know: he was going to die. And, just like before, the next thought in her head was, _Not if I can help it_.

“What do you need?” she asked again.

Sherlock’s lips twitched, caught between a smile and a frown as his unusually high emotions threatened to spill over the surface. In a low, raspy whisper, he replied. “Just you.”

It was different, this response; similar enough that she knew he was remembering the Fall, too, but he’d added the _just_ to the beginning. What did that mean? Molly waited, silently, knowing he would either explain, or he wouldn’t, and no amount of questioning would change that. When it became clear that he _wouldn’t_ be elaborating, she asked a new question: “What can I do?”

He took a shuddering breath, and one tear trickled down his face. Molly would never get used to seeing him like this, and she didn’t want to. _Let me help you_ , she pleaded in her head. Finally, Sherlock replied, “I just… can’t be alone tonight.”

Molly swallowed hard. This was _bad_ , whatever it was. And it became clear to her, this was likely to be Sherlock’s last night. He would be gone by tomorrow. The thought brought tears to _her_ eyes, and she bit her lip to try and force them down. His eyes remained on her through this, and she could see him deducing her reaction. He knew that _she_ knew, or at least had guessed. And he seemed to be equally impressed and saddened by that. Still, she couldn’t help but hope she was wrong.

“This isn’t…” the words caught in her throat. “I mean… you’re not… saying _goodbye?_ ”

Sherlock didn’t respond at first, and his lack of response was answer enough in itself. Molly fought to keep from crumbling, but the waterfall of tears couldn’t be suppressed. Finally, Sherlock took another breath, and his voice was as cool and collected as ever as he spoke. “Molly, you have always seen me, known me, in a way that no one, even John, has even come close. I… still don’t understand why… when you know me so well, when you have seen me at my absolute worst… you still _stay_.”

Molly gnawed on her lip again, knowing this was the best—the _last_ —opportunity to say the words she had never before had the courage to say. Fear still held her back, for a moment, but she forced her way through it, and said, quietly and firmly, “Because I love you, Sherlock.”

He blinked slowly, and she watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. “How?” he asked, that little wrinkle appearing on the bridge of his nose as he frowned. “How can you possibly love me? I am cruel and insensitive, to you as well as to others. I have manipulated you, I’ve insulted you, I’ve disappointed you… how can you continue to love me?”

Something clicked inside Molly’s head then, something she had never before considered. Really, she should have, if she knew Sherlock as well as he seemed to believe. “You did it on purpose, didn’t you?” His eyes widened a fraction, and she knew she was spot on. “All the hurtful things you’ve said and done… you did it intentionally, to keep me at arm’s length. Why?”

Sherlock stood abruptly, pacing about the room. “What does it matter? It obviously didn’t work! You’re still _here_ , doing everything I ask of you, because you _love me!_ ” He spat the words out like he would a rotten orange. He stopped pacing, and looked at her again. “ _Why?_ ” he whispered fiercely.

“Because that’s what love is!” she countered, also getting to her feet. “It’s being there for someone, no matter what. There’s nothing logical about it, it can’t be reasoned. It just _is_.”

He stared at her, his chest rising and falling with each rapid breath. Slowly, his anger dissolved into the same sadness that had preceded it. He collapsed onto the sofa again, burying his face in his hands. Molly sat as well, watching him and waiting. She didn’t know what was going through that brilliant mind of his, but she knew this night would change everything. It was an ending, and for her part, she wasn’t sure she was ready.

Sherlock straightened, his eyes red once again, and he looked at her. “Molly, I… I’ve done something… very not good.” He nearly laughed, likely some private joke. “I’m leaving London tomorrow… and I won’t be coming back. At least… not _alive_.”

Molly felt her chin quiver as her eyes grew moist again. “I knew it was something like that.”

He nodded, not surprised. “As a last courtesy of sorts, Mycroft has arranged for John and Mary to… see me off.” His voice broke at the end of the sentence, and he took a moment to compose himself. “In my current situation, I… knew it would be unwise to ask him to allow one more person.” Sherlock met her eyes again. “But I had already been given tonight, to spend as I wished.”

Her heart swelled against her will, flattered that he would choose to spend this time with her. “And… how do you want to spend it?” she asked carefully.

Sherlock licked his lips, and answered, “That is entirely up to you.”

“Me?” she echoed.

He shifted so he was facing her head on, his eyes never leaving her for a moment. “Molly, despite my behavior, I do… care about you. I want for you to be happy. And… I am willing to do what I can, in the limited time available, to see that you will be.” He took another breath. “What happens tonight is entirely up to you.”

Molly felt almost dizzy with the weight of what he’d just said. He was giving her everything she’d ever wanted, and even if he didn’t fully know what that entailed, he was willing to do it. But only for one night. Why was fate so cruel? Why couldn’t this have happened ages ago? Why did she have to love this man, condemned to death, with only a matter of hours left? Thinking of tomorrow hurt, like a white-hot poker stabbed through her heart. And she knew it would only be worse if she gave in, if she asked for what she truly wanted from him. But God help her, she didn’t care.

“Can we… pretend?” she asked timidly.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “Pretend what, exactly?”

Molly mustered up what was left of her courage, and forced out her request. “Pretend you love me.” He was obviously surprised, and was about to reply, but she cut him off, “No, I know. You don’t believe in love, but you’re a remarkable actor. You made Janine believe you loved her,” she added, trying to force the bitterness from her voice. “And I know you were expecting something… well… _something_ ,” she said with a blush. “But I don’t want that if you’re going to be _resigned_ to it. I want you to pretend you want it as much as I do. Make me believe it’s real.”

He was perfectly still for a few minutes, and Molly likewise refused to move. She’d said her piece, she’d made her request. It was up to him now, and she honestly wasn’t sure how he would respond. He had said he would do whatever it took, but perhaps this was going too far. If it was, she had other, milder ideas. Maybe a private violin concert…

Just when she was about to suggest something else, his eyes softened, and he gave her a look she had never seen before. It was a mixture of affection, determination, and an aching sadness. His fingers caressed her face, trailing a slow path from her cheekbone to her jaw, until he lightly took her chin between his forefinger and thumb. His eyes flicked down, looking at her lips, and she watched his pupils dilate. _Christ, he’s good_ , she thought as her heart danced anxiously in response. He tugged gently, pulling her toward him, eyes still on her lips. Molly closed her eyes, feeling a bit of sensory overload, and tried to prepare herself.

But nothing, _nothing_ , could have prepared her for what it felt like to kiss Sherlock Holmes.

The moment his lips brushed against hers, she was lost in an electric current, pulled as if by a magnet to him, and he was clearly just as drawn to her. What started as a soft, innocent peck, became a full-on snog in less than five seconds. The hand cradling her chin slid to the back of her head, and his other hand shot around her waist, practically dragging her onto his lap. Molly didn’t even resist. Her own hands fisted around the lapels of his Belstaff as she straddled him. Their hands wandered, hers into his hair— _soft!_ —his roaming her back and waist. A trail of goose flesh erupted across the skin of her back as his fingers slipped beneath her pyjama top, and she leaned further into him. Which was, apparently, the right thing to do, as the evidence of his arousal pressed against her _right there_.

In an instant, he stood, hoisting her up and guiding her legs around his waist. Their lips broke apart as she gasped, and she met his eyes. They were impossibly dark, and burning with what she could only describe as hunger. He strode purposefully toward the open door to her bedroom, and her body flushed with anticipation. Once inside, with the door pushed halfway shut, he slowly released her, setting her on her feet. They reached for one another in tandem, closing the distance with another heated kiss.

Molly slid her hands inside his coat, pushing it off his shoulders and letting it fall to the floor. Part of her expected him to quickly pick it up and hang it on one of the pegs on her door. But he seemed just as eager to be rid of all impediments, and quickly shrugged out of his suit coat, which fell in a heap on top of his Belstaff. Sherlock turned his attention to her top, gripping the hem and yanking it off in one fluid motion. He paused, eyes lingering on her bare breasts, and Molly fought the urge to cross her arms in front of them. He’d said they were too small, indirectly, that horrible Christmas. What was his opinion now, seeing them literally in the flesh?

She forgot her insecurities when he pressed a soft kiss to the very top of her left breast. Molly’s head spun with the intimate contact, and she gripped his shoulders to keep from melting into a puddle at his feet. As he kissed the other one, his thumb hooked around the waist of her pyjama bottoms and her knickers. With slow, deliberate movements, he dragged them down past her bum, all the while pressing feather-light kisses between her breasts and along her abdomen. At last, she stood completely exposed to him, in every possible way. He stepped back a fraction, his eyes roving over her, drinking in the sight of her. “You’re beautiful,” he murmured.

Emboldened by his assessment, Molly closed the distance between them, a sultry smile playing at the corners of her lips. “And you’re wearing entirely too many clothes.”

She placed her palms on his abdomen, dragging them upward, feeling his muscles constrict at the touch. With the same agonizing slowness he had used on her, she unbuttoned his shirt, leaning forward and marking each newly bared spot of skin with a kiss. He sucked in a breath as she reached his navel, and with a tug, she untucked the shirt, and retraced the path of kisses she’d left. He shuddered with desire, and in a fit of obvious impatience, he pulled the infernal thing off himself. Molly felt her own patience wearing thin, so she made quick work of his belt and trousers, his hands coming to her aid, until all that was left between them was air.

It was impossible to tell who kissed who first, but in a split second, they were back to the frenzied kisses from before, skin against skin, each throbbing with the need for _more_. Molly felt herself being pushed onto the bed, and Sherlock followed soon after, carefully, making sure he didn’t crush her with his weight. And, just as cautiously, he slid inside her. Molly cried out in pleasure, and he responded with a throaty moan, and gathered speed. And within minutes, they reached the fastest and sweetest climax either had experienced.

Sherlock moved shakily to one side before collapsing onto the mattress, rolling onto his back. Neither one moved for several moments, until Molly felt Sherlock’s hand entwine with hers. She turned her head, and found him watching her with that same tender expression. Reality came crashing down, as she remembered that this would be the one and only time. Before she could stop it, a sob burst from her lips, and the heartbreak overwhelmed her.

Wordlessly, his arms slipped around her, and he cradled her against his chest. Her deep, guttural sobs echoed in the quiet flat, and her heart broke a little more with each sob. “Don’t go,” she begged.

He held her tighter. “I have to,” he whispered.

Minutes passed this way, Molly crying and Sherlock holding her. When she had almost cried herself dry, she became aware of Sherlock’s fingers gently stroking her back in an attempt to soothe her. She also noted the suspicious dampness of her hair, and, drawing her head back, confirmed that he had shed tears right along with her. His eyes were dry now, but still red-rimmed and brimming with sorrow. He gazed back at her as if she alone could replace his grief with joy. Something flickered in his eyes, and he smiled softly. “But I don’t have to go _yet_ ,” he pointed out.

With a watery laugh, Molly pressed her forehead against his chest. His pulse thudded against her skin, and to her surprise, the beat was erratic and quick. Her own heart accelerated, and she tried very hard not to read into his reaction. It was probably just a physical response of being near a naked woman, with whom he had just had sex. He didn’t actually… it was just pretend…

“You’re thinking rather loudly, Molly,” he said with a smile in his voice.

Molly smiled involuntarily. “You always say that.”

He chuckled deeply. “Because it’s the truth.”

Sherlock never asked what she was thinking. He likely knew already, and was therefore trying not to break her heart even more. They seemed to form an unspoken agreement to pretend, for the rest of the night, that tomorrow _would_ come, that this _was_ real, and that it would last.

Molly turned to her other side and spooned against him, and he pulled the comforter out from beneath them, protecting their naked forms from the inevitable chill. Once settled, he started tracing random patterns on her upper arm. She soon recognized the pattern, which wasn’t random at all, and was in fact a series of numbers, repeated over and over. She concentrated, attempting to determine what they were. _1…1…2…9…2…0…0…7_. Molly sucked in a breath without thinking, the importance of the numbers dawning on her.

11-29-2007. The day they met.

“Angelo’s case,” he picked up on her train of thought. “You were working your first solo shift. I fairly tore you apart that day.” Was it just her, or did his voice carry a hint of regret?

“I was an easy target back then,” she shrugged. “Fresh out of school, just got dumped by my college boyfriend—”

“Still recovering from your father’s death the year before. Fragile. And I used it all against you.”

Molly turned in his arms, facing him again. She met his eyes directly. “And I forgave you less than an hour after you left.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “Why?”

She hesitated, not sure how he would take the truth. But he would know if she lied, and he would never let her get away with not answering. “Because… I saw something in you that day, and I’ve seen it every day since, beneath the arrogant, high-functioning sociopath.” She smiled sadly, impulsively lifting a hand and brushing away the curls on his forehead. “I saw pain. Loss. Something or someone from your past had gone missing, or left, or passed on. And it haunted you. It still haunts you.”

His mouth was open, his eyes wider than she’d ever seen them. He blinked owlishly, and he smiled—a small, but sincere smile, eyes still impossibly wide. “Molly Hooper,” he breathed. “You really do see me better than anyone.”

Molly felt herself blush, and she bit her lip, averting her eyes. “Then I was right?”

“Twice, in fact,” he said, and she met his gaze again, confused by his answer. “I lost a beloved dog, many years ago, and not long afterward, my brother—the _other one_ —turned on us all. I haven’t seen him since then.” Pain flashed across his face before he controlled his expression. “Mycroft and I have always been at odds with one another. Sherrinford was different. He cared, or he seemed to care, about what I said and thought.” A muscle twitched in his jaw. “Turns out he was the _real_ sociopath.”

She cupped his face with the hand that had been toying with his hair. “And you decided you would never let yourself care again, didn’t you?”

He nodded slowly. “‘Caring is not an advantage,’” he quoted his eldest brother. Molly wasn’t sure if he knew she’d heard him and Mycroft talking outside the mortuary that night. The night he identified that awful woman from _not-her-face_. Obviously, he’d cared for her, whoever she was. The specifics of her case were never shared with her, and she suspected it was better that way. But he cared, and was advised _not_ to care. And Molly had never before wanted so badly to give Mycroft a good slap.

“Yes it is,” she argued, and he gave a small start at her words. “Caring for others, and having people who care about you, is what makes you stronger. It helps you understand, helps you grow and learn. When you care, you pay more attention, and you absorb more. You _remember_ more. And I don’t know how it all works in your mind palace, but I would imagine the people and the things you care about most take up a big chunk of it.”

Glancing at his face, she realized she’d shocked him again. “What?”

“How…?” he breathed, his eyes roaming over her face. “How did you know… how could you possibly understand…?”

“I told you,” she said patiently. “The more you care, the more you pay attention.”

Sherlock exhaled slowly. “You certainly _have_ been paying attention.”

Her face warmed, and she looked away again. “Well… we’ve already established that I’m pathetically in love with you. Is it really so surprising?”

He shook his head in wonder. “I once thought you were ridiculous, predictable, and only _slightly_ more intelligent than the average idiot.”

“Thanks very much,” she deadpanned.

He shushed her with a finger over her lips, then his expression softened, and his finger traced the outline of her mouth. “But the more I saw, the less I could predict. And when you showed up that Christmas with a new dress and a gift for me, I knew I would never solve it.”

Molly blushed deeper at his reference to her least favorite Christmas. “Solve what?”

Sherlock smiled and traced her lips again. “The mystery of Molly Hooper.” His smile widened. “Just when I believe I have it figured out, you go and surprise me.”

She couldn’t stop the grin from spreading across her face. “Well, at least I’m not boring.”

Something shifted in his eyes, and in the dim light streaming in from her living room, she saw them darken. A shiver crept up her spine as his hand made contact with her waist, pulling her closer. “No,” he said, his voice so low she barely heard him. “Not boring in the least.”

With that, Sherlock’s lips claimed hers, and their mutual passion escalated into a second round. This time was much more relaxed than the first. He kissed her languidly, as if savoring the taste and feel of her, and his touch was gentle and almost reverent. And Molly was very nearly convinced that he wasn’t pretending at all.

They lay in a companionable silence afterward, Molly tucked against Sherlock, his arm draped across her middle from behind. His hand was back to tracing patterns in her arm, though this time, she didn’t notice any rhyme or reason behind them. She desperately fought sleep, knowing he would be gone when she woke. But her eyelids grew heavier and heavier with every passing moment, and soon, it became impossible to keep them open.

In her last moments of consciousness, or perhaps in her earliest dreams, she thought she could hear a voice whispering near her ear, “ _My Molly_.”

* * *

Molly woke to the typical, obnoxious buzzing of her alarm, and she groaned in protest as she reached out to silence it. In the process, she realized she was naked, and the memories of the night before came rushing back. She whipped her head around to see the other side of her bed, only to find it empty not only of a warm-bodied detective, but of any sign of his being there to begin with. Her bedroom door was open, and from her view, she saw her kitchen and living room were also unoccupied.

He was gone.

Molly curled into a ball in her bed and let the grief consume her. Now that the make-believe was over, the pain of reality was overwhelming. Sherlock didn’t really love her. Last night had been a beautiful illusion, and nothing more. He was gone, and she would never see him again.

She considered taking a sick day, but decided against it. There was no point in delaying the inevitable, and she had to move on eventually. Best to start now, rather than later. With tremendous effort, Molly forced herself to get out of bed, and start getting ready for the day. She grabbed knickers, bra, and bathrobe, heading for the shower first. Her movements were mechanical, unconscious. After a shower, she dressed, pulled her wet hair into a low knot at the side of her head, and went into the kitchen for tea and breakfast.

As she absently reached for the kettle, her hand made contact with… _paper?_ Startled, she looked down at the kettle, and saw a note taped to the handle. Molly instantly recognized Sherlock’s hurried scrawl, and she turned the kettle to read the note easier. Her throat tightened and tears sprang to her eyes, and she leaned heavily against the stove. “Damn you, Sherlock Holmes,” she half-laughed, half-sobbed, his note now in her hand as she read it again and again.

_I wasn’t pretending. Thank you for everything._


	2. Walk Through Hell With You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last Chapter: 'Molly instantly recognized Sherlock’s hurried scrawl, and she turned the kettle to read the note easier. Her throat tightened and tears sprang to her eyes, and she leaned heavily against the stove. “Damn you, Sherlock Holmes,” she half-laughed, half-sobbed, his note now in her hand as she read it again and again.
> 
> _I wasn’t pretending. Thank you for everything._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was originally posted as two separate one-shots, but I decided to combine them into one. I do hope you enjoy.

 

> _"Even if we can't find heaven,  
>  I'd walk through hell with you."_
> 
> _-Rachel Platten, "Stand By You"_

* * *

 

Molly Hooper sat in a daze on the tube, on her way to Bart’s hospital for another day of work. She had shared a beautiful, sad, unforgettable night with the man she loved—and of course, it had been his last night in London. By now, he was on his way to death’s door, and she would never see him again. Her heart ached at the thought, but the ache lessened with the memory of the note he’d left her.

_I wasn’t pretending. Thank you for everything._

She didn’t know what to think about that. After all, she was the one who had asked him to make her believe it was real. And damn that man, he nearly succeeded. But how could she be sure? With no way to ask him, she was afraid she would never know the truth. Then again, perhaps she didn’t _want_ to. Perhaps she should just ignore her doubts, let herself believe what could be a lie, and do what she had asked of him, and pretend.

So she did. Molly allowed a fond smile, the kind one wore when recalling fondly a face from the distant past. Certainly, it was a smile she would wear for the rest of her life whenever she thought of Sherlock Holmes. The sweetest, saddest love affair, over before it really began, but worth every last moment.

The train came to her stop, and Molly squared her shoulders. She could face this, she could continue living her life. Though she doubted her ability to love anyone else—the disaster that was her brief relationship with Tom proved she couldn’t—she did believe she could handle a life alone, with the memory of their maybe-not-so-pretend night together. With the knowledge that he very well may have loved her. And that knowledge, rather than breaking her down, amazingly, gave her strength.

That strength served her well as she strolled through the corridors of Bart’s. She was able to greet the people she always saw, in the way she always did: cheerfully. She felt significantly better about things by the time she reached the lab, still sad, but with growing bravery.

Then she noticed the monitor in her office.

She slowed in her efforts to put on her white coat, frowning at the screen. Hadn’t it been off just a moment ago? No one else could have been in there to use it, and she was positive she’d never been so careless as to leave it on overnight. The monitor remained black, but obviously _on_ , and she stepped slowly toward the office. Then the screen flickered, and an image appeared. Her hands stilled, gripping the lapels of her coat, and her stomach plummeted.

_“_ No,” she whispered, black tendrils of dread crawling through her. “No, not him… not now…”

Meanwhile, the laughing face of Jim Moriarty taunted, “ _Did you miss me?_ ”

Molly stood in blind panic for two more seconds, then whirled around, her eyes frantically scanning the perimeter of the lab. _Empty_. She raced to the door and yanked it closed, locking it for good measure. It wasn’t enough, it would never be enough to keep that bastard out. Forcing her gaze back to the office, she swallowed at the sight of the screen, now black again. She inched closer, and found it had turned off again. Her whole body shook, and her vision clouded with frightened tears.

_Oh, Sherlock…_

Sinking to the floor, Molly despaired yet again over the loss of the man she loved. She would be a target, this time; Moriarty would certainly know of her involvement in the Reichenbach case, and he wouldn’t want to leave a loose end. She would die, and very likely soon. A spasm of terror shot through her at the thought, and she pulled her knees against her chest, hugging them tightly.

Molly didn’t know how long she stayed there, on the floor of the lab, forcing her lungs to expand and relax in a semi-regular pattern. She hardly dared move, for fear he would suddenly leap out from the shadows. She gave a startled scream when her mobile rang, and after taking a few more breaths, she retrieved it with trembling hands. John’s picture flashed on the screen, and she heaved a sigh of relief, quickly answering.

“John?” she breathed.

“Molly, are you okay?” the former soldier asked firmly. “Are you safe?”

She swallowed hard. “I-I’m fine.”

“Where are you now?”

“Work,” she replied simply.

“Okay, don’t move. Mycroft is on his way, I’m sure he’ll be in touch. Probably has eyes on the place already. Just stay there and wait for him to pick you up.”

Molly nodded, before remembering he couldn’t hear that through the phone. “I’m not going anywhere.”

True to form, Mycroft called her in a matter of minutes, instructing her to get in the car outside her usual entrance, and informing her that he had negotiated a leave of absence with Mike. By that point, the shock and alarm had partially subsided, and she had no difficulty quickly gathering her things and half-running out of Bart’s. A sleek, black Mercedes-Benz sat a few metres away, and she made a mad dash, flinging herself into the backseat. Mycroft didn’t so much as flinch, likely having expected her hysterics, and calmly spoke to the driver, “Drive on.”

“Where are we going?” Molly asked.

Mycroft gave a sardonic smile. “Where else, Doctor Hooper? Baker Street.”

* * *

Molly paused at the door of 221B, not sure what awaited her inside. Was Sherlock back? Was he out trying to find Moriarty? Did he have any guesses as to how he’d managed it? Would he acknowledge last night, or would he continue pretending—this time, pretending it never happened?

With a bracing breath, she turned the knob and went inside. Mycroft had opted not to join her, probably off taking care of national security or something, so she entered alone. Normally, she felt perfectly safe at Baker Street, but nothing was safe, _or_ normal, about today. She took quiet, slow steps up the stairs, controlling each breath into near-silence. The stairs barely even creaked in protest against her weight, and she made it to the top of the stairs undetected. Once inside the flat, it was a different matter.

“Oh, Molly, thank God!”

John and a heavily pregnant Mary burst through the doorway, both enveloping her in a tight hug. She leaned into them, their embrace a balm to her frayed nerves. At the same time, her eyes examined the flat, looking for any sign of Sherlock’s return, but found none. Molly bit her lip against the tears that threatened, hoping her disappointment wouldn’t be too obvious. She didn’t know how much John and Mary knew, and didn’t know if she could keep it a secret in her current state.

“You sure you’re all right?” John asked.

“I’m not hurt,” she evaded the question as the Watsons pulled back to look at her.

Mary gave her arm a motherly squeeze. “I know you must be terrified.”

“Yeah, I am,” she agreed. “I mean… how is this possible? How can he be back?”

“Sherlock’s working on that now,” John said, twisting his upper body and neck to peer around the corner toward the detective’s bedroom. “He’s been in his room near twenty minutes now, hasn’t even made a noise. Probably in his mind palace, though if you ask me, he could use a break,” he added bitterly.

Mary put a hand on John’s shoulder. “John, I don’t think—”

“The wanker OD’d,” John barreled ahead, his lips pursed in obvious anger. “And spent God knows how long in his bloody palace, so deep we thought he was already…”

Molly processed his words, and, suddenly weary, sank onto the sofa, trying desperately to sort through the many emotions rushing through her. She was furious—how could he use drugs _again?_ How could he risk it? She was ecstatic—he was back! He hadn’t gone to his death after all! And she was even more terrified—what on earth was going to happen next?

Still in a daze, Molly didn’t notice Mary suggesting that they give her a bit of privacy, and complaining of not having anything to eat since morning. She didn’t hear John agree, and ask if she was in the mood for chips, but not before announcing he would at least try to talk to Sherlock. She was completely unaware of their departure, and of the quiet, cautious footfalls approaching from the bedroom soon after. She remained in her trance until she heard the sound of a throat being cleared.

Molly started, and her eyes alighted on the man she was helplessly in love with. His eyes were bloodshot and somewhat blank, a byproduct of the drugs. Her anger flared, and she clenched her fists around the edge of the cushion to keep from shooting to her feet and slapping him again. She looked closer, and through the drug-induced haze, she saw raw emotion. Her fury dissolved almost instantly. Bugger, she never could stay mad at him anyway, could she? Especially not now, when she saw that emotion in his eyes. It took her a moment to place it, but when she did, her throat tightened and her vision blurred.

It was _need_.

Without a second thought, Molly stood and crossed the room, winding her arms around his middle. He responded immediately, wrapping her securely in a warm embrace. His hold on her tightened, and she felt his chin rest on top of her head as he released a long breath. Slowly, his tension eased, and his hands moved to her shoulders, gently pushing her away. His crystalline eyes searched hers, then closed off in hesitation. “Molly, are you certain you’re all right?”

“Don’t worry about me,” she shook her head. “There are more important things to—”

“No,” he cut her off. “Nothing is more important than you.”

His words had a dizzying effect on the pathologist, and she was grateful he still held her, for she might not otherwise have been able to remain upright. “But… Moriarty…”

“Is dead,” he finished.

She frowned. “Then how is he back?”

“I have my theories, none of them concrete yet.” He brushed the backs of his fingers along the length of her jaw, and she shivered involuntarily. If she didn’t know better, she’d have said his eyes darkened just a bit. “But rest assured,” he went on, “I’ll find the perpetrator, and get rid of him, and of Moriarty, once and for all.”

Despite her trembling frame, Molly’s voice came out perfectly even, “I know you will.”

Sherlock smiled softly, before his expression turned steely with resolve. “In the meantime, Mycroft is setting up a safe house for you.”

She blinked twice. “He _what?_ ”

“You’ll only be there until we’ve caught the culprit,” Sherlock explained, his hands on her shoulders again. “Shouldn’t be more than a few weeks, hopefully far less than that, depending on how extensive the rebuilding of the network has been. And you’ll be kept informed, of course—”

“I’m not going,” she interrupted.

It was Sherlock’s turn to blink in surprise, but he composed himself quickly. “Of course you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes,” he insisted, “you are. It’s already being taken care of. You can even bring your bloody cat along. He’s here already, if you want to—”

“Sherlock, I’m not going, and you cannot make me!”

His eyes flashed, and she watched a muscle in his jaw twitch. “Molly, be reasonable.”

“No, _you_ be reasonable!” she countered, stepping away from his grasp. “Do you honestly think I’m going to let myself be carted off to God knows where, while you work against the apparently resurrected criminal who almost killed you? _And_ ,” she added, “let’s not forget _why_ he wasn’t successful, or rather, _who_ made sure he wasn’t!”

The muscle twitched again. “This is different. He will have figured it out by now. He’ll surely know the full extent of your involvement, which puts you in danger.”

“I’m well aware of that,” she spat, “but I don’t care!”

“Molly—”

She shook her head. “No, I’m not going to be some bloody damsel in distress! If this is war, then I want to fight, however I can!”

“ _No_ ,” he snarled, his voice low and dangerous.

“Well, why the hell not?”

“Because!”

 

“Give me a reason!” she demanded.

 

“BECAUSE HE’LL KILL YOU!!” Sherlock bellowed, his face turning red. Molly jumped and took a step back, eyes wide at the sudden, furious outburst. “You’re going to be his first target, and he’ll kill you without a even moment’s hesitation!” The detective’s livid expression gave way to desperation. “I can’t let that happen,” he rasped out. “I can’t… lose you.”

Molly gasped inaudibly at this admission, and she blinked at the perpetual tears in her eyes. He turned his head away, his jaw clenched as he took several deep breaths. Taking one cautious, deliberate step toward him, Molly reached out with her left hand, cupping it against his cheek. His eyes fluttered closed at the contact, and her own stomach filled with butterflies. She gently guided his head toward her again, lifting the other hand to rest on the other side of his face.

“Sherlock,” she whispered, and his eyes met hers. She caught a rare glimpse into soul beneath the piercing, aquamarine irises, and her own doubts fled. “You _weren’t_ pretending last night,” she stated, never more certain of what she was saying. She looked deeper, and went on, “You’ve been pretending to feel _less_.”

The tiniest smile lifted the corners of his lips. “Astute as ever, Doctor Hooper,” he murmured.

She matched his smile for a moment, then furrowed her brow in confusion. “Why, Sherlock?”

Following a slow intake of breath, he replied, “As I said before, nothing is more important than you, and your safety. I believed that keeping you at arm’s length would keep you from harm. And for a time, it worked… but you stubbornly refused to let me push you away.” His tone was teasing, gentle. “You, with your irrational love for me, proving me wrong so many times. You, the unsolvable mystery.” Sherlock leaned in, his forehead meeting hers, and he exhaled slowly. “Foolish woman,” he added with a smile.

Molly hesitated, choosing her words carefully. She pulled away to look him in the eye again, and was the steadiest she had ever been as she spoke. “I don’t care what dangers come, Sherlock. I don’t care if you tell me we’re going to the very gates of hell. I’ll be at your side, no matter what.”

His eyes searched hers again, and then he sighed, resuming his position against her forehead. “I suppose you _would_ be safest here, where I can keep an eye on you.” His arms found her waist, drawing her flush against him. “At any rate, I find myself… reluctant to let you go.”

She beamed up at him, arms twining around his neck. “I’m not going anywhere,” she breathed against his lips, and he responded with a searing kiss. Molly basked in the euphoria of requited love, pouring her heart and soul into every kiss, every touch, every moment. Beneath her hands at his neck, she felt Sherlock’s pulse hammering, betraying his own highly emotional state. She giggled as he lifted her off the ground and spun in a circle (miraculously, her feet never crashed into any furniture).

Some time later, the Watsons stepped over the threshold, both their eyes bugging out at the sight of the amorous exchange. John’s jaw dropped, but before he could even make a sound, his wife clapped a hand over his lips, effectively silencing him. Her own mouth was curled into a satisfied grin, and she led her husband from the flat, silently plotting all the ways she was going to tease Sherlock about this in the future.


End file.
